


An Evening in Soho

by Eliza49



Category: Harriet Vane/Peter Wimsey - Fandom, Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 14:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20341414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliza49/pseuds/Eliza49
Summary: Peter and Harriet encounter the Duke of Denver and a companion at a restaurant in Soho. Afterwards the duke wonders what his brother and sister-in-law will make of him...





	An Evening in Soho

The Duke of Denver was spending the evening at Balthazar’s, in the company of Alice Kettle.

There was a time when he had favoured the company of shop girls and chorus artists in establishments such as this. But he was in his fifties now, and in recent years he had unexpectedly discovered the benefits of more matronly companionship. Mrs Kettle was a widow, the Duke having long since learnt the dangers of entanglements with married women. She ran a boarding house where a number of chorus girls resided, and this was how they had first met. His graduation to the ample bosom of Mrs Kettle had brought with it a number of unforeseen pleasures, and he was as much fond of the inviting aromas of her kitchen, and the effortless warmth of her fireside, as he was the generous comforts of her boudoir.

Theirs was an attachment of three-years standing, an unusually long duration for any of the Duke’s extra-marital associations. Most often, they kept to the East-London district of Shoreditch, the location of Mrs Kettle’s boarding house, which for the Duke held the dual attractions of exoticism and anonymity. Today, however, was Alice’s birthday, and whilst the Duchess of Denver remained at Bredon Hall, in anticipation of an imminent visit by the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland, the Duke of Denver was ‘in town on business,’ business which included wining and dining a tenderly receptive Mrs Kettle at Balthazar’s in Soho.

Gerald had been looking forward to the evening for some time, and its beginnings had been promising. It was for this reason, along with a number of others, that he was particularly displeased to discover, shortly after the arrival of pudding, that his own brother was also dining at Balthazar’s.

He had not expected to see Peter here: Balthazar’s was not the sort of place dukes, or their younger brothers, generally frequented; in particular it was not the sort of place that a gentleman necessarily chose to visit, as Peter had that evening, in the company of his lawful, wedded wife.

* * * *

Peter and Harriet entered without seeing Gerald and Alice.

Peter held the door open and Harriet entered ahead of him, but her head was turned to speak to him, smiling. Peter was likewise principally occupied with their conversation, whilst also steering Harriet expertly over the threshold, removing her cloak from her shoulders, offering it (along with his coat, scarf and an inattentive thank you) to the waiter, and then requesting a table. They were both seated and holding menus before either paid any particular heed to their surroundings. Then Peter positioned his monocle judiciously and began to scrutinise the wine list. Harriet watched the waiter light a candle for them, gazing for a while into the flame, before recollecting herself and taking up the menu.

Since both were reasonably familiar with the kind of fare Balthazar’s had to offer, they ordered soon afterwards. Then, under the surreptitious cover of candlelight, Peter turned his attention back to Harriet.

* * * *

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Gerald.

“What is it, Teddy Bear?” asked Alice, indulgently.

“Over there. It’s my brother. My brother is dining here!”

“You mean the famous detective?” said Alice intrigued. She craned her neck for a glimpse of the celebrated Lord Peter.

“For God’s sake, _don’t look round_,” hissed Gerald urgently.

Alice patted his hand. “But I want to see your brother, Gerry sweetheart. When else will I get the chance?” she asked reasonably. She took out her powder compact, and under the pretence of lightly dabbing at her chin, inspected her lover’s celebrity relative.

“Well, I can see the resemblance, my sweet. Of course, I’ve often spotted his picture in the paper, but it’s not the same, is it? Who’s that with him? He looks ever so smitten with her, whoever she is.” 

“It’s his wife,” replied Gerald tersely. He was filled with righteous indignation, such as he might have felt on the occasion of a gentleman bringing his secret lover to dine, in broad daylight, at the Savoy.

“Never!” whispered Alice, with a quiet but definite thrill of excitement. “_That’s_ Harriet Vane? Ooh… I love a good mystery and you know Harriet Vane is my favourite. My girls and me were just listening to one of her books on the wireless the other night. Robert Donat was reading it out – a proper actor who’s been in pictures. Just goes to show - you don’t get Robert Donat reading just any book, do you?”

“Quite,” responded the Duke, who was little accustomed to literary criticism, and entirely at sea with Mrs Kettle’s idiosyncratic approach to the subject. Then his sense of outrage got the better of him. “What the devil is he thinking, bringing her here?”

“Well, now, Teddy Bear,” said Alice, gently scolding, “_You_ said, a special treat for your special girl. Perhaps your brother likes it here too?”

Belatedly, Gerald realized his mistake. Whilst internally he protested that what is right for a mistress could scarcely be considered appropriate for a wife, he was also obscurely aware of the excellence of Mrs Kettle: a chorus girl would have bridled instantly at the reminder that she was not really entitled to the best her gentleman friend could offer. Alice, however, perfectly understood their positions and relations and she entertained no expectation or pretence that Gerald would ever treat her like a duchess. She might remind him that his behaviour was a little less than gallant, but having done so, she was content to return to the business of eating chocolate pudding: a conspicuous scene was not about to follow.

Alice scraped the last remnants from her bowl with evident relish. Then she said:

“I’ve had my sweet, Gerry. And now I’m going to nip out the kitchen door at the back. You settle the bill, whilst I take the Tube home. If you like to follow me, you know where I am.”

“I say,” said Gerald, humbled. “There’s no need for that. I mean, it’s not right for you to go home on your own.”

“Get away with you. If you want a little miss who needs a strong man to look after her, you’ll have to do a lot better than this when you run into your brother and sister-in-law in places none of you are meant to be.” 

“I suppose you’re right. At least let me pay for a taxi. Thanks awfully, Little Pudding, it’s jolly decent of you.”

“Yes. It is,” she agreed, in the tone of a mother gently reminding her child of the importance of good manners. Then she squeezed his hand, stood up, headed unobtrusively towards the door leading to the kitchen, and left.

* * * * 

Though he had barely yet tasted the Chateaux Montrose he had ordered from Balthazar’s uncommonly well-stocked cellar, Peter’s mind was pleasantly intoxicated. Harriet was wearing dark-red silk, and a promising flush of self-conscious pleasure as he whispered the words of John Donne into her hair. His hand strayed discretely under the table.

Suddenly she caught his fingers. “Peter – in that mirror. I believe I see Gerald in the company of a queenly lady in green.”

“What the devil…” He had closed his eyes, the better to enjoy touching her, but they snapped open abruptly now. He looked in the mirror behind their table, and saw his brother speaking urgently to an unknown companion. “What the blazes is _he_ doing here?” He demanded indignantly.

He looked at Harriet, who wore an expression of contrition. “Dearest, I’m so sorry. I rather killed the mood, didn’t I?” 

“Well, yes, Domina, you did. Or rather Gerald did. I suppose you will want to behave with propriety for the rest of the evening?” 

“Perhaps we _had_ better be a bit more… dignified.”

“Curse the man. What the deuce does he mean by it, coming here? Why can’t he go and have his extra-marital peccadilloes somewhere he won’t interrupt our scandalous, marital misbehaviour?”

“I expect he is doing, my love,” said Harriet reasonably. “One can hardly expect him to know that we used to come here often when we first met.” She caressed his fingers a little. “After all, it _is_ a place to avoid prying eyes.” 

“Not any more,” said Peter plaintively.

“Do you know his companion?” Harriet asked, unable to resist her own curiosity any longer.

Peter looked again in the mirror. “Haven’t the least idea. She’s of a more full-bodied vintage than was Gerald’s palate the last time I stumbled upon his private life.”

“Do you mean the beautiful, put-upon farmer’s wife for whom Gerald risked his neck in the dock? Though perhaps you’d better not tell me too many of your brother’s darkest secrets... it’s hard enough facing Helen _without_ knowing them. Oh goodness – poor Helen.”

“Now you really have killed the mood, my dear. I certainly never envisaged spending the evening talking about _Helen_.” He removed his hand. “We might as well have gone to dine at the Ritz,” he added, in a tone of fretful disgust.

Harriet’s lips quirked dangerously. “I’m so sorry,” she said solemnly. “Do you want to go on somewhere else? I’m sure there are plenty of lower places in Soho we could frequent.”

Peter considered the matter. “No, damn it, I don’t. This is _our _place. I brought you here countless times in what I shall now term our ‘courtship,’ so that I could badger you remorselessly and you could sulk at me intractably. They were highly romantic trysts and we will _not_ be driven out now by _Gerald_, of all the blasted fools”

“Oh dear,” said Harriet ruefully. “Why _did_ we come back here, after all those evenings when I was so rude? Come to think of it, why on earth did I say we should pretend not to be married for the night? Being married is _much_ more fun.”

Peter’s mood changed immediately. “Is it truly, my Lady?” he asked, pleased and only a little uncertain. His hand roamed gently once again.

“Yes. Yes, it is. Only, Peter, perhaps you _shouldn’t_ do that. You’re normally so discrete in London and then we lost our heads in the taxi and came here and … um, Peter… Gerald is just over there!”

“Damn it, I forgot!” said Peter, his wandering hand ceasing its caresses. “I say, the queenly companion has disappeared!” he exclaimed suddenly. 

Harriet too looked in the mirror. “So she has. Do you suppose Gerald has seen us?”

“I don’t know,” mused Peter. “And, do you know? I don’t care. Gerald and London be damned. You are my wife, after all!”

“Oh… yes I am,” agreed Harriet warmly. She closed her eyes as Peter’s lips captured hers in a luxurious kiss.

The Duke of Denver watched them as he squeezed carefully between tables. He shook his head philosophically at yet another instance of his younger brother’s oblivious impropriety. Then he left to find a taxi to take him to Mrs Kettle’s boarding house in Shoreditch. 

* * * * *

At Audley Square the following afternoon Peter was reading to his son, when he received a message from the Duke of Denver.

“‘… and the dog says ‘woof’,” finished Peter. “I’m no expert, Bredon, so we’d better ask your mother, but it appears to be an avant-garde piece: high degree of repetition, use of the present tense, precious little story to speak of. A work of experimental fiction, don’t you know?”

Bredon gurgled appreciatively.

“It’s clearly to his taste,” remarked his mother, as Bredon succeeded in inserting the volume into his mouth.

“What is it, Bunter?” asked Peter, addressing his valet. “You seem to be hoverin’, if you’ll permit the expression.”

“Yes, my Lord,” replied Mervin Bunter calmly. “The Duke of Denver rang, my Lord, whilst you were calling at Scotland Yard.” 

“Hmm. I bet he did,” remarked Peter.

“His Grace is passing through town and wanders whether your lordship would join him after dinner for a drink at his club,” Bunter glanced at Harriet. “To discuss a business matter.”

“I see,” said Peter. “Do you mind, Harriet? The club, the timing and the ‘business’ all seem to indicate that I’m supposed to go on my own.”

“I imagine so,” agreed his wife. “You had better go. Give him my love, if it seems appropriate to the conversation.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

* * * * * 

By evening Peter was feeling decidedly uncharitable towards the sixteenth Duke of Denver. Like his brother, he had recently developed a liking for firesides – in Peter’s case his own fireside, and he was particularly loath to leave the comforts of home, Harriet and Bredon for what promised to be a highly uncomfortable encounter with Gerald. Nevertheless, he set off promptly after dinner as requested. 

At Gerald’s club, he was greeted warmly by his brother and furnished with a generous measure of exceptionally good port. This served to mollify him a little.

“How’s Bredon?” asked Gerald, a trifle too heartily.

“He’s very well,” replied Peter. “Extremely gifted in the fields of gnawing on his toys and removing his knitted boots.”

“Splendid, splendid,” replied Gerald inattentively. “And …ah… Harriet?”

“Also very well. Thank you. She sends her love.”

“Oh... er... Jolly good. I suppose you and she don’t dine out so much, what? Now you have Bredon and so on.”

“Not so much,” agreed Peter. Then, in a bid to help the conversation on, he added, “We dined out last night, however. In Soho.”

Gerald met his eye uneasily. “I suppose you saw me there?"

“Yes, old man. We both saw both of you.”

“Ah… so Harriet saw too?”

“Yes.”

“Um... Do you think, old chap, she is likely to mention it at all? To… er, Helen, for instance?”

“I am quite sure that Harriet will never think it necessary to mention it to anyone,” said Peter firmly.

“I see. Um, that’s good.” The two men were silent for a time, Peter wincing a little when he observed his brother absentmindedly swirling his port in his glass as if it were brandy.

Gerald was considering further Peter’s previous statement, which seemed to him rather improbable. In all of the Duke’s experience of the silences which habitually surrounded the indiscretions of gentlemen, he had never personally encountered the eventuality of another gentleman’s wife directly witnessing a matrimonial slip. Within Gerald’s customary circle of acquaintance, wives simply did not go to the places where such things occurred. Now that Harriet had heedlessly broken what he had previously presumed to be a rule, he was at something of a loss as to what the code of conduct ought to be.

At length he hazarded, “I suppose Harriet has rather advanced notions about that sort of thing, what? Given her background and so forth.”

Peter cast the Duke an amused look. “Well, I don’t know if polygamy was the thing in Hertfordshire when Harriet was growin’ up, but I’ve been hopin’ she’s still a little old-fashioned in that regard. Speakin’ as her husband, don’t you know?”

“Oh. I see. Well, quite... I just thought perhaps she might be used to… well… I thought mixing with all these Bloomsbury people – intellectuals… artistic types… er… _poets_.”

"Poets?" repeated Peter, in an ominously colourless voice.

"I mean to say... I didn't mean…" floundered the Duke.

“Yes, Gerald, I know _exactly_ what you meant," replied Peter, exasperation at the Duke’s ineptness mingling with a swift, defensive anger for Harriet's sake. The circumstance of finding himself summoned from hearth and home through the sins of his brother only to be confronted by clumsy allusions to the past of his wife suddenly provoked him to irritation and unusual frankness. "Look here, Gerald, Harriet has had a lot less experience of 'that sort of thing' than either you or me. She made one poor decision in her life, when she was twenty-six, grieving for the death of her father, making her way alone in the world and unprotected in ways you and I will never have to contemplate. As a result, she gave in to the selfish demands of a thoughtless, young man who was badgering her to death. God knows, you and I have both made worse mistakes with far less excuse and neither of us has ever had to pay half the price Harriet did." 

The Duke of Denver was momentarily speechless, appalled that his opening conversational shots had missed their target so completely.

It had long been apparent to him that there were peculiar, private areas of Peter’s life into which one did not intrude – the war, his detective cases, certain works of literature to which Peter attached inordinate importance (Gerald felt) for words written by a poetic chap three hundred years ago… These topics were all mystifying, alien terrain to Gerald, but brotherly instinct and experience had taught him that they were sacred ground to Peter, and so he had ceased to tread there. (Where possible he discouraged incursions on the part of Helen also.) In recent years it had become clear that Harriet was the central, holy shrine in Peter’s own, personal Jerusalem, and since Peter’s marriage – and particularly since the birth of Bredon – Gerald had come to feel real gratitude and affection for his sister-in-law (albeit tinged with puzzled awe for the intense fascination she seemed to hold for his eccentric younger brother). In particular, Gerald strictly forbore from any mention of anything to do with Harriet’s past, since this would be offensive to Peter, as well as disrespectful to the mother of his own nephew. To have blundered, heavy-footed into this territory now (when he was actually seeking a stealthy retreat on his own part) filled Gerald with such acute horror and embarrassment that he was rendered all but incoherent.

“I say… Good Lord… I mean to say… Harriet – highest regard… would never do anything…” At last he made a plunge for simple sincerity: “Look here, Flim… never meant to upset you, old boy. Nothing further from my intentions. Truly sorry, old chap.”

Peter, who was more accustomed to emotional frankness than was his brother, recovered his temper and poise quickly. “Never mind, old man,” he said hastily. “I’m sorry too.” Then, taking pity, he offered up a conventional refuge: “Too many late nights, I dare say. Son and heir not so good at sleeping, don’t you know. Harriet likes to get up with him, so I tend to tag along – not being much of a sleeper myself.”

In fact, even this conjugal detail contained slight allusive risks, leaving Gerald still uncertain how best to navigate around the conversational bomb which had just exploded in their midst. It had scattered a variety of debris – Harriet’s history and trial for murder, Gerald’s history and trial for murder, Gerald’s current indiscretions and his blatant lies to Helen, as well as Peter’s current happiness and his fierce devotion to Harriet had all been exposed in the course of Peter’s sudden outburst.

Peter, seeing that Gerald was still at a loss for words, and genuinely wishing to reassure him in the matter of the queenly companion, said simply. “Don’t worry about Helen, old bean. I may not always be silent as the grave, but Harriet and I would never say anything. Cross my heart, hope to die horribly and all that. Truly, Gerald, you can count on us both.”

Gerald, recovering from incapacitating embarrassment, sat down near the fireplace and stared into his port glass.

“Thanks. Er… jolly good show. I mean, not really a good show.” He ventured a quick glance towards his brother. Despite his reassurances, Peter’s marriage made Gerald suspect him of judging harshly. He remembered an argument they had once had when home from Eton, in which Peter had made an all-too-astute deduction about their father’s recent behaviour, and had come down uncompromisingly on their mother’s side. He thought perhaps that Peter considered him a something of a heel, and felt compelled to say more. “Helen doesn’t need to … I mean I expect it seems lowish, but I’d never want to make Helen unhappy. And the fact is, Peter, Alice is a jolly good sort. As a matter of fact, I’m well… I’m dashed fond of her, you see.”

Gerald was taken by surprise at his own sudden revelation, and by the fact that there was even pleasure to be had in sharing his secret happiness with his brother. Peter smiled mildly, “Yes, I thought you might be,” he commented. “Her name is Alice?”

“Er, yes. Mrs Kettle. She’s a widow. Runs a boarding house – all perfectly respectable. The girls sing on the stage, that sort of thing. Alice is awfully good to them – splendid really.”

“I’m glad,” replied Peter simply. “I mean to say, it’s jolly to care for someone.”

Heartened at his brother’s words (and relieved also of the burdens of apology and confession), Gerald drank the rest of his port. Peter imbibed more carefully, enjoying the flavour. Peter’s comments made Gerald think of Balthazar’s the evening before, and emboldened by the unusual intimacy of their present conversation, he ventured a suggestion.

“I say, Peter… about Harriet – I don’t s’pose she’s had the fun of really good dining out before – what with her backgr… well, with Hertfordshire, and what you said about being twenty-six. Do you think, old chap, that Soho is really a treat for her? What I mean is – do you think perhaps the Ritz might be more jolly? Now that she’s Lady Peter Wimsey, what?”

Peter began to laugh. “Bless my soul! Gerald, are you really trying to tell me how to ‘treat a lady’?”

“Eh? Not at all,” said Gerald defensively. “Of course it’s entirely your business. I was just thinking of Harriet. In my experience, wives like the Ritz, Simpson’s, that sort of thing, that’s all.”

“‘In your ‘experience of wives’?” paraphrased Peter lightly. “We seem, my dear brother, to be heading back into treacherous waters.‘T’is dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink,’” he quoted, taking another sip of port. “Gerald, let’s not worry too much about our wives’ different tastes in restaurants. Although as a matter of fact, Harriet is quite partial to the Ritz, and I think she goes quite as often as she would like to. We were at Balthazar’s for old time’s sake, so to speak. We used to dine there when we first met: Harriet didn’t like to be seen places, and there isn’t much danger of meeting the press at Balthazar’s.”

“Ah, I see, yes. Quite.” The Duke, having had his own uses of Soho anonymity uncovered, looked distinctly embarrassed once more. 

“Oh dear – dangerous ground again,” mused Peter. “What I mean is, we only went there last night because we were playing a game…”

“Er… playing a game?” Gerald queried confusedly, his understanding of this concept being limited to sports played on the fields of Eton. 

“Oh hell,” groaned Peter, suddenly foreseeing the complicated, uncomfortable revelations that might arise from the direction the conversation was taking, and having no particular wish to share secrets of the marital chamber with Gerald. “We were… pretending not to be married,” said Peter, glossing his explanation slightly. Nevertheless, he detected a sudden gleam of enlightenment in the eye of his older brother, who had, after all, identified Balthazar’s as an eminently suitable prologue to a night of extra-marital pleasure.

Gerald, meanwhile, was considering the idea that it might be possible to enjoy the delights of a mistress in the company of one’s own wife instead. He supposed that he had half-understood this about Harriet before, for whilst one never actually thought about such things in relation to one’s own brother and sister-in-law, it did explain why Peter should have chosen her. Of course, probably one reason Peter liked Harriet was because she was fearfully clever – she read and wrote books, after all, which again was not the sort of thing wives generally did. But Gerald could see that she was handsome in her own way too, and it would seem that she was also enticingly amenable to ‘playing games’… although obviously one did not actually think about such things in relation to one’s own sister-in-law and brother. Peter and Gerald exchanged all-too shrewd glances, and then hastily looked away. 

“Yes, well, thanks awfully for the port, Gerald,” said Peter blandly. “By the way, we saw Jerry in town last week – he seemed very well.”

“Hum…” replied Gerald despondently, “A bit too well, I should say. It’s all very fine that there’s a back-up heir now, but I’ve told him that that isn’t a license for being damned irresponsible.”

“What did he say to that?” asked Peter, suddenly caught in half-formed imaginings of a future, grown-up, rebellious Bredon.

“Damned, impudent fool. He said ‘abdication is in fashion these days.’ Though, in point of fact I’d probably be grateful if he did go and marry an American divorcee. Helen wouldn’t like it, of course, but I suppose at least he’d be settled and not killing himself in some bally sports car. He’s learning to fly now, you know?”

“Yes, he was telling Harriet.”

“Can’t think where he gets this wild streak from,” said the Duke of Denver quite without irony. “At least if he got married there might be another heir, no matter how unsuitable the wife. I mean to say, since we’re not royalty that wouldn’t matter half so much as Helen seems to think.”

“Yes, indeed, so they tell me,” agreed Peter amused. 

“I say, I wasn’t referring to you and Harriet!” exclaimed Gerald, “In any case, Harriet is not at all unsuitable, not a bit of it.” Gerald blustered incompetently, appalled at the possibility that he might have insulted his sister-in-law yet again.

But Peter had finished his port and thereby drowned his irritation with his relations. “I know, old bean. Never mind. Jolly good to see you, but if you don’t mind, I shall now head home to my highly suitable wife!”

At the door he was halted by Gerald’s voice. “I say, Peter. I’m glad too. I mean, you and Harriet. I’m glad that you have each other, and Bredon, and that… that you enjoy a good dinner.” Gerald looked momentarily, thoroughly mortified at his own euphemism, but nodded encouragingly at his brother nonetheless. 

Peter chuckled. “Thank you, Gerald, old man. Good night.”

“Good night, Flim.”

**Author's Note:**

> “T’is dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink,” – from Act II Scene III, Shakespeare’s _Henry the Fourth (Part One) ___
> 
> Thank you for reading. X


End file.
